


Going to Church

by De Orakle (Delphi)



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Religion Kink, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-01-01
Updated: 1999-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:14:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/De%20Orakle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>He's going to Hell</em>. Ezra and Josiah get wicked in the church.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going to Church

**Author's Note:**

> Exact date of publication unknown.

He's going to Hell.

That isn't exactly a revelation for Ezra P. Standish, but the thought is still a little unsettling, occurring as it does just as his shirt begins to be unbuttoned. Eternal damnation...the notion gives a small struggle for recognition, only to be banished to the corner as Josiah works his way up to the fifth button, the fourth, slipping his hand under to lay against Ezra's chest. Josiah strokes his skin softly, tracing a circle of rousing warmth around Ezra's nipple.

Ezra sighs, his head falling back against Josiah's shoulder, slipping one leg off the pew and bracing it on the floor. He shivers as the caress travels lower, blazing a trail down his stomach. Even lighter, even lower.

A single finger unhurriedly draws along the waistband of his trousers, back and forth, untucking the ends of his half-unbuttoned shirt. His belly tightens against the cool air. Josiah's hand stills at the small movement, and Ezra feels him reposition himself, tugged back by the hips to press even closer.

"Perhaps we should take this elsewhere..." he whispers, very softly so as not to break the fragile spell cast by the flickering Mass candles and Josiah's languid care.

"We could," Josiah says, "but I'm more than a mite comfortable right here." He presses down on Ezra's abdomen, gently but brooking no argument.

An inkling of sacrilege nags at Ezra's mind as he stares up into the dark shadows between the church's ceiling beams with a slow fire burning in his loins. A hitherto undiscovered sense of taboo rakes its claws gently along his insides, but Josiah's touch is a sweet countermeasure. He arches into the caress.

Josiah's fingers are clumsy for a moment with the strained buttons of Ezra's trousers, his hand a warm blush of heat that Ezra can't help but thrust toward—only to be held firmly back by Josiah's arm around his middle. Josiah mumbles something low, sounding amused, and Ezra bites back the sharp comment that lurks on his tongue. Petulance will only encourage him, he knows, and Josiah already has the upper hand, a hand that is lightly skimming the front of his drawers, a hand that Ezra grasps and presses into his lap. He wriggles slightly and closes his eyes as Josiah starts up a kneading motion in time with Ezra's own throbbing pulse.

He clutches Josiah's wrist, his hips taking up the slow, deep rhythm. A contented moan slips from his throat.

He spreads his hand along the back of Josiah's, trying to manipulate their fingers into the gaps between the buttons of his drawers, desperate for skin on skin. But Josiah pays no mind, relentlessly stroking him through the soft cloth.

He purses his lips. The heat and pressure are tortuous, the hand pressing down on his belly a small comfort. He swallows hard. The musky scent of sweat and arousal is heavy in the air, and Josiah's breath is hot and quick in his ear. Ezra grins suddenly, the fulcrum of Josiah's delicately balanced control revealed.

The answer from Josiah is immediate as he presses his hips back: a twitch and a growl. The hand between his thighs grows rougher, more demanding, every stroke rolling a wave of pleasure through Ezra's body until he's moaning uncontrollably. Fingers tickle at his stomach in feather-light patterns; a soft kiss is pressed into his cheek as he thrusts blindly into the driving rhythm.

His stomach trembles, and he realizes all too suddenly that he can't hold back much longer. A choked gasp cuts his breath in half—a convulsive stiffening—a near-painful contraction—a warm spurt of wetness.

His eyes flutter shut. His breath is an elusive thing, fluttering around in his chest like a moth as Josiah's hands leisurely pet him from breastbone to belly. Rather smug in his own cooling satiation, Ezra smiles as Josiah shifts impatiently behind him.

A yawn stretches his jaw, and he stretches full-body before sliding bonelessly from the pew to his knees.

There's a barely restrained eagerness in Josiah's movements as he swings about to sit at the bench's edge. His thighs are shaking as Ezra runs his hands along them. Ezra licks his lips, his fingers making short work of the buttons.

He fits one hand around Josiah's hip and leans forward.

He is most definitely going to Hell.

This time, the thought takes on new urgency, as it's the first time it's lit upon him with a preacher's cock just inches from his lips. The blame lies, of course, on his First Communion—the catechism classes in the tiny chapel, the visions of Hell and Purgatory. It's become his cross to bear, so to speak.

Now, apparently, his slate of transgressions is about to include acts of sodomy with the clergy on holy ground. He closes his eyes as his mouth sets to work, stained glass windows painted inside his eyelids with pictures of saints and sinners on their knees.

A rough groan rings out, echoing through the church and sending Ezra stumbling into the thought that the door isn't locked. He covers his blush by rubbing his cheek, catlike, against Josiah's thigh. Or rather, his sadistic mind amends, the door to the church doesn't _have_ a lock. This thought is rather more pressing than the affiliation of his immortal soul, flickering insistently in his mind until he follows its path. The lack of security is something Ezra took note of in his habitual way upon his first visit and has never paid much mind to until now.

What scene is this that some midnight visitor might stumble in upon?

Cold and sticky in his lap, Ezra knows how he must look—his topcoat long since tossed over the back of a pew, his waistcoat having followed not long after. His suspenders brush against his calves as he kneels, and his unhitched trousers reveal an embarrassing half-dried stain on the front of his drawers. He doesn't even want to think on how his hair must be lying.

He shuts his eyes tightly and lets his mouth move on lazily.

A warm and unexpected touch—Ezra gives a guilty start as Josiah's hand gently cups his face. He draws his mouth off with a wet sound, letting his head be tilted back. He has to force himself to open his eyes to the rather unreal scene: his lips dampened, Josiah's erection wet and warm and close, and that gaze locked with his own. He gives in gratefully to the caress as Josiah ever so softly trails the back of his hand over his cheek.

Ezra opens his mouth for words that won't come; something twists in his stomach as Josiah smiles that fierce smile of his and shakes his head slowly, incredulously, his thoughts his own.

He lets Josiah push him back down and soon draws out a tender sigh that makes his groin tighten again. Josiah's hand tangles in his hair, and Ezra eagerly sets forth to coax out more of those encouraging sounds, to lose himself in them. He swirls his tongue and lips in an intimate kiss, nuzzling the dampened flesh against his cheek. He dips his head to feel the tug at his hair, licking lower and lower, mouthing wet promises against Josiah's skin.

A certain flutter of his tongue draws something like a whimper from Josiah's throat, and Ezra chuckles. He lets his head rest against Josiah's hand, and at that easy angle, his mouth moves down and down, his throat clenching for an instant before he forces it to surrender. The hand in his hair clutches tightly, and a harsh thump rings out. A quick glance up reveals Josiah with his head thrown back against the pew, breathing very deep, very harsh breaths.

Running his hands lightly over Josiah's heaving sides, Ezra moans deep in his throat, shutting his eyes tightly as the grip on his hair twists painfully. His lips slide as low as he can take, and he can feel Josiah trying to restrain his thrusts even as he groans a low, desperate groan.

One hand still petting Josiah's hip, Ezra brings the other to join his mouth in its long, wet strokes. Josiah responds with the most longing of sounds, with gasps and guttural half-words, and Ezra himself can't keep quiet as his hand and mouth move faster in tandem, urging Josiah closer to a rough finale.

He swallows swiftly as Josiah, frozen for an instant, gives a short hitch of his hips, then another. They both fall still until, slowly, Ezra lets Josiah's cock slip from his mouth, taking a certain mischievous delight in tightening his lips just that much over the sensitive skin. He hides a smile against Josiah's hip as his hair is tugged in a silent reprimand.

Sitting back on his heels, he pillows his head on Josiah's thigh. The hand in his hair is soothing in its lazy caress. He runs his tongue over his lips, trying to ensure they're wet with only spit; he gives up. He knows how he must look. If anyone were to walk in...

Because, after all, the church isn't locked. And he is going to Hell.

And sitting there, with Josiah's hand rubbing his neck and Josiah's solid thigh beneath his cheek, Ezra realizes that he really doesn't give a damn.


End file.
